


Confessions and Epiphanies:  A Conversation

by WinterDusk



Series: If, Just Maybe [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Young!Loki, Young!Thor, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDusk/pseuds/WinterDusk
Summary: “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”Thor and Loki talk.  Well, Thor talks.  Loki thinks.  Then he acts.





	Confessions and Epiphanies:  A Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on from ‘Blood and Glory’.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

Thor’s sitting on the foot of Loki’s cot in the healing wards, perching like the Realms’ largest and most nervous kitten. Assuming that any feline ever double guessed themselves enough to _look_ uncertain.

If Thor’s the cat here, then Loki’s the mouse, frozen in his pile of pillows as if, by his sheer refusal to move, he’ll scrape through this moment unscathed.

It’s a futile wish. Thor’s tenacious. And, now that he’s got his claws into something – a juicy puzzle for once, and not a far-less-metaphorical foe – he’s not going to let it go. Not until he’s ripped it wide open and made a horrific mess.

At least a kitten would have the dignity not to look to the mouse for reassurance as they gutted it.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Loki picks at the finely spun sheet covering him. Rather, he tries to. His left hand – his _dominant_ hand – is an immovable lump below thick windings of bandages. And, _no_, Loki doesn’t want to dwell on just how ruined the entire limb must be that Eir couldn’t merely will it into health again.

Be that as it might be, if there’s one topic Loki wants to dwell on less than his maiming and the fact that he is, apparently, going to have to become substantially more used to taking action right-handed, then it’s his parentage. Not that Thor, poised as he is to pounce, will leave Loki much choice in that matter.

The blessed idiot even brought a _book_, for mercy’s sake!

Loki doesn’t look at the book, pages helpfully splayed at whatever it is that Thor wanted to show him, right before he decided that maybe he shouldn’t be showing him anything at all. Rather, Loki looks at Sif. Her eyes are closed; to all intents and purposes fast asleep.

Loki’s faked sleep many times, learning gossip and secrets aplenty. Sif’s not him – lacks the creative spark and imagination – but still, even the noblest of warriors can awake and, upon waking, conclude discretion the better part of valour. Loki wants her out of here.

Hels, he wants _Thor_ out of here, but he knows when he’s wishing for the impossible.

“Brother…” Thor hisses; as though he’s not just utterly and thoroughly denounced such a connection. “Brother, speak to me.” His paw, huge and heavy, comes to rest on Loki’s shin. It’s warm, even though the sheets.

“I want to sleep.” Loki lies. Maybe if he rolls over and tugs the sheet up, above his head?

But all his movements bring is a jolted arm and a wave of pain. At least that’s a good excuse for his watering eyes.

“Loki.” Thor sounds utterly heart-torn.

Loki can’t bring himself to care right then. “Go away.”

After a moment, Thor goes.

#

The problem with lying there, all but alone in the healing halls with only a slumbering Sif for company, is that Loki is anything but ready to sleep. Rather his mind is churning, fast and frantic, like thoughts are beetles that have crawled in through his ears and now can’t escape again.

And he hurts.

Mostly just in his arm; though burning streaks of agony seem to worm under his skin, touching his bones and vaporising his flesh at the most unexpected of locations. Loki lies frozen; torn between stillness in the hope that all will fade away, and summoning healers to banish him to sleep. It’s at this junction that Volstagg, mother-hen that he is, would recommend Loki summon a pain-numbing draught, never believing that, for Loki, they simply do not work.

Sounds like he knows why now.

Norns! But how did _Thor_, of all people, figure this secret out first?

Loki’s been looking for evidence about his mother for _centuries_. His real mother, blood mother, birth mother: whatever term it is that he’s meant to be using. And along comes Thor, not a suspicion in his head, and discovers something that Loki should have guessed at an eternity ago:

He’s not Aesir.

Not truly.

All those botched healings. The summer sun that always felt too hot. The ways that he never grew quite so tall nor muscular as he should.

The fact that he looks, utterly, nothing like his ‘family’.

Just who had Odin taken to bed?

For a moment Loki tries to imagine it. Oh, not the gooey, messy side to things. But the simple logistics that led to his existence. For if he bears Jotunn blood, then it must come from his mother’s side; for Frigga surely never went into confinement with him. And, as a member of Asgard’s royal family, it remains apparent that he must carry Odin’s blood or else he’d never have been taken in. So. This Jotunn maid. A lady or a peasant girl? Had she been some camp follower, encountered in the wars that raged between their realms? Or maybe a fierce diplomat; someone Odin had brokered peace with, and then encountered something more?

Maybe Odin had even…

Nausea, thick and overwhelming, leaves Loki retching over the side of the bed, and it’s with a sense of shame that he realises he’s utterly missed the bucket that would usually be placed there.

“Hey.” Sif’s sleepy hand rests on his shoulder; voice for once soft and uncombative. “Are you unwell? Should I fetch Healer Eir?”

#

A restless night leads to a dark, overcast morning. Outside, the clouds are heavy; oppressive. Inside, the thick stone maintains a cooler, fresher environment. Or would, should Loki be in any mood to enjoy it. Instead he is listing.

_Father_  
_Mother_  
_Healer Eir_  
_Eir’s minions_

Who else? For, truly, there must be more who have fallen complicit in this conspiracy. King Laufey? Did he know the truth of his subject’s misdeeds? And if so, what long reaching political consequences have arisen?

Mother’s ladies in waiting, too, must have some inkling of the truth. If not of his alien blood, then at least of the cuckooing of their mistress. For his bastardy being a fact he’s so long suspected, Loki’s startled that it still holds the power to cut.

Then there must be the warriors who’d travelled, first to Midgard and thence Jotunheim, with their king. Was this intrinsic facet of his nature behind the scorn of General Tyr? The easily-roused temper of the training master, Tig? And to think; Loki had always assumed them merely disappointed by his performance when first they’d been gifted with overseeing Thor’s training!

Speaking of whom.

Thor is peering cautiously into the ward, to all intents and purposes as shamefaced as when they were sneaky children, not as they are now; Thor a warrior full-grown and Loki a youth ready for the battle field.

Loki’s shoulder chooses that moment to erupt into agony, for all that he’s not so much as moved a muscle. The Norns, clearly, are keen to punish him for some slight he cannot guess at.

“You might as well come in.” He should sound more grateful. After all, with his tainted blood, the merest murmur of denouncement by Asgard’s favourite son must surely see Loki banished. Yet here he is; petulant. Maybe a corner of his mind cannot believe that Thor would ever cast him aside.

It’s a foolish assumption. Thrones are made to be held, not shared. Thor, always the golden and heroic, was ever to be Odin’s successor. And now he has all the information he needs to make complete his destiny.

Instead, the all-but-crowned prince slinks into the room, more of a kicked cur about him than last night’s hunting cat. And, in his mitts, a box of sweetmeats. Loki’s favourites. As though he were still a child, to bribe to good cheer.

“Did you sleep, brother?” Note that Thor does not ask ‘sleep _well_’. So he’s sense enough for that. And yet:

“I am, it would appear, not your brother.”

Loki might as well not have spoken for he hasn’t even given Thor pause as he makes his way into the room.

“Of _course_ you’re my brother,” Thor speaks those words as though he can’t conceive of Loki being anything else. Well, Thor always was rather unimaginative.

“Half-brother.” Loki corrects. He is pleased to note his voice sounds cool and remote to his own ears. It’s the tone he uses when he’s about to rip someone to pieces with devastating logic and inside knowledge. Yet Thor is looking at him as though, rather than fear the cut of Loki’s words against himself, he thinks the person most at risk in such battles is Loki.

Placing the sweetmeats on the bedspread, Thor wraps an arm around Loki’s shoulders, careful of the bandages. Pulls him in just enough to press a kiss to his temple. “Favourite brother. You’re not the only one entitled to correct others.”

“You should be glad to have me gone.” The words are too much, Loki realises, even as they tumble from his lips. For while he believes the truth of them, it comes across as melodramatic and self-serving. Like he’s fishing for complements and promises that can no longer be granted to him.

“Why would I want you gone?” Thor appears genuine in his query. “As a child, I wanted one. A brother or a sister. Someone to play with.”

“That was then.” The words slip past Loki’s lips, but they are the truth. A childish wish is one thing; as a man Thor must look to holding the throne. And where Odin’s brothers fought themselves to a bloody ruin at their father, Bor’s, demise, now Thor might easily sidestep this potential peril.

But Loki just receives a confused frown as though his comment seems nonsensical: “Then, now and always. I’m not so fickle as to change my mind.” For a moment silence stretches between them, until, speaking quickly, as though he can’t wait to be rid of the words, Thor adds: “Did you know, they always told me I wouldn’t have a sibling? Even mother said no.”

Oh. Loki wonders what reply Thor expects to this. Should Loki tease him about making a poor choice in requesting a sibling? Make a joke about Odin’s dalliance being punishment to his obstinate queen? Point out that _wanting_ a brother is not the same as _having_ a half-monster share his inheritance?

Then Thor adds words that toss Loki’s understanding away.

“One of the maids said it was because of me. That I was too… much. That birthing me tore mother up.” Thor doesn’t say it like women’s labours are a subject of any consequence to him; but Loki’s known his brother (not his brother) all his life. He knows the ways Thor uses to try to separate himself from troubles he cannot change; has seen the guilt he feels when he thinks he should have been able to intercede or when another has suffered for him.

Thor looks at Loki; eyes bright, though not with storms. “And then there you were.” A long wanted play-mate and an absolution of harm all in one. “Why would I want you gone now?”

#

It’s not all so easy as that.

The day when Odin (Father? Odin? Allfather?) enters the hospital wing might feature among the worst Loki’s had in a long time. The king demands a status report. Has Eir recite all of the things wrong with his arm. Has the limb unwrapped and insists Loki try to extend it, to lift it, to turn it.

Loki finds himself near tears by the time the man leaves and, though he’ll ever claim it came from pain, he can’t pretend that he hadn’t, all afternoon long, been looking for a single sign of the affection their father so readily extends to Thor.

After Odin’s left, mother comes. She takes his hand gently and they talk, in the low and secretive voices of kin, about Seidr and fate and weaving. And all the time Loki finds himself thinking that, if only he had been a half-bastard of _hers_, then maybe it would all have been well.

#

At length – a long, long length – Loki is allowed to return to his own rooms.

Once there he packs to leave and is ready within the hour. Then he falls into a fitful dose ‘til dusk. He’s on the bifrost bridge out to the observatory, hoping against hope that he can persuade Heimdall he has some honest business on Alfheim, when Thor catches up to him.

Really, that damn hammer had been quite bad enough, and then Thor went and learned how to fly with it!

Thor’s still rough with his landings though; his footsteps thumping and skittering across the slick surface of the bridge like a foal’s first walk across ice. If Loki were a heartless brother (half-brother?) then he’d keep his back turned and leave Thor to tumble from the bridge or not as is his fate. Thor’s a strong man and they’re yet far from the world’s edge; he’ll make the swim back to shore.

Instead Loki reaches out to steady his brother. Tries to. Stumbles with a gasp to his knees as the twist of his spine pulls at something in his shoulder and thence at the scar and- “Hels damn it!”

“Loki. Hey, Loki.” Thor’s just fine, of course. Hasn’t fallen. Hasn’t hurt himself. Doesn’t look aught but worried about his pathetic younger half-brother as he kneels besides him. “What happened? Let me see.”

And the fussing should be _horrible_. For what type of warrior is Loki if he must always turn to his brother? Except that, regardless of the consequences his mind warns him of, his heart is at ease, his very skin soothed, by the simple safety inherent in his brother’s touch.

He blinks down the stinging in his eyes, then looks over at his brother. “Following me, Thor? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

It should be a joke and a chiding in one, but Thor smiles easily, turning it into the simple truth. “No. Nothing more important.”

Tears spill over, so Loki turns from Thor, facing on down to where the sea weds the heavens. “Well then. We’re going to Alfheim. As you’re not busy.”

#

Heimdall, Master of the Gates, Seer of All, Pain in the Rear, would have forbidden Loki passage. Loki has known that fact in every moment of his planned bid to escape. Indeed, he’d been more than half-prepared to have to return, footsteps heavy with fatigue, to his own rooms that night, and equally convinced that there’d be violence needed to press his point.

Thor just says, “We’re heading to Alfheim. It’s private.” and they’re going. What’s more, Loki’s pretty certain Heimdall won’t look down upon them ‘til Thor summons his attention and _asks_ to be returned to Asgard.

Alfheim, when they land, is sultry as ever. It does cross Loki’s mind that, considering his nature, maybe he should have suggested somewhere cooler than this summer realm. Then he puts this aside as a sign of weakness. “He always does favour you.”

Thor laughs. “Only because we spar together.” As though Loki is deliberately so inept that such a warrior would never accept his call to the training sands!

But then Thor slings an arm – gently! – around Loki’s shoulders, and offers up a flask of what smells to be Loki’s favourite tea and, strangely, it’s hard to stay angry at him.

“So, tell me, brother. Why are we running away?” Thor steals a sidelong glance at Loki. “Beyond the obvious.”

Obvious? Loki grimaces. Is that what all of this has driven him to? “Who says that I’m running away?”

“No one.” Thor’s eyes are wide and guileless. “My mistake. So. Why have we left home on this lovely night?”

_Why should I stay in a realm where I have no place?_ “Maybe I need some space.”

It’s only as he says it that Loki realises Thor could read this as a passive aggressive demand that he leave. Thor, thankfully, does no such thing. “And so we have space.” He lets go of Loki to turn around on the spot, arms wide spread as though to embrace the echoing jungle in which they’ve found themselves. “What now?”

_Now I have a nervous breakdown._

“No idea.” Get drunk? Sleep for a thousand years? Find a way off this rock before Heimdall comes looking for him?

“Okay.” They walk a little further. Thor thwacks at various bits of greenery with Mjolnir, less to aid their way ahead, and more from some misplaced frustration. “Well, I kind of have an idea. If you want.”

“An idea?” Loki’s not yet recovered from the last time Thor decided to actually engage his brain. He’s far from certain that he should be encouraging Thor in his intellectual pursuits. Then Thor pulls out a long, glittering knife, holding it poised between them. Suddenly a philosophical Thor seems a whole lot more dangerous. For what if he has decided to remove Loki from the line of succession once and for all?

Thor had even _told_ Heimdall not to look down on them and-

The knife looks, really, very sharp.

“I thought,” Thor says, with sudden careful focus, “that maybe you might be feeling… disconnected.” Then, in a rush, as if to get out the words before Loki can object. “Just a little. Just because of the unexpectedness of this all.”

“And so you thought a _knife_ would be helpful?” Because nothing says ‘calm and relaxing’ like being menaced. Especially while still recovering from the _last_ blade someone thrust in his direction.

“I thought.” But then Thor stops, uncertain and faintly embarrassed. Oh great. It’s going to be one of _those_ plans. Any potential for fear floods out of Loki and he’s left feeling faintly ridiculous for being spooked.

Still, it places Loki in somewhat of a conundrum. For does he really want to engage with this folly, whatever it may prove to be? “Thought what?” Apparently he does.

Thor studies him; long and hard. And, when he speaks, he does so slowly, as though giving Loki plenty of time to scupper the idea before it’s completed. “That _if_ you were feeling… uncertain… about our family, that maybe we could make it better. By blood. Blood brothers, that is. So that you’d always know that you were- Well. And that I meant it. Meant to choose you. Always. As mine.”

“Blood brothers?” That’s… unexpected.

“Yes.” Thor’s gaze is steady, certain. Of course Thor’s certain; it’s _his_ blasted plan. It’s Loki who’s had it sprung on him from nowhere!

For Father will have his own plans. Loki knows this. Things that Odin will have hoped to achieve when he took a half-Jotunn brat into his perfect family. Things that this blood rite of Thor’s could utterly topple. For, if they are brothers in this way- If they complete this and mean this and hold to this, then-

For a moment, like an image seen in smoke and clouds, Loki wants, fiercely, more than anything, to take Thor’s blood and so spit in his lying cheat of a father’s eye.

Then the haze of vengeance clears, leaving him looking at the face of one dear to him. One who speaks to him honestly and with love. Someone who would never think to use Loki as a weapon against those who had wronged them, but rather as one to guard and protect and, perhaps, to trust.

The fact of the matter is that both scenarios lead to the same conclusion, and yet the difference of the decision is… important. Loki looks at Thor; at his brother. “Alright then.”

#

In the end, it’s not so complicated. They sit by the bank of a wide and silted river while Thor wields the blade. Loki had insisted it be Thor; doesn’t trust his injured arm to guide the blade, nor his right hand to cut true. (Doesn’t trust his motives to be so pure as Thor’s.) The cuts stings, though not so much as when Thor takes his hand, pressing them palm-to-palm against one another.

“I will guard your honour as my own.” Then, a second later, as though remembering that Loki should be made equal in this relationship: “And you will guard my honour likewise?”

It’s only when Loki hears the rising lilt of a question pass his brother’s lips that he realises it’s an honest question. That, far from having forgotten the fact that Loki should be able to defend Thor’s own honour, Thor has been waiting for Loki to freely declare as such.

Startlement leaves his voice thin, but Loki manages to mirror, “I will guard your honour as my own.”

And that, he expects, will be that. But Thor has other words. “Your shame will be my shame.”

Loki murmurs back the words, wondering what he should read into this specific word choice. That Thor must clearly see and acknowledge the shame of Loki’s heritage, both in terms of the nature of his blood and the bastardy of his birth.

Yet still the words continue. “Your goals will be my goals and your hopes will be my hopes.”

“For you are always, now and forever, my closest kin; my brother.”

#

They’re on the bifrost, walking back to the palace, when Thor asks, because apparently he can’t think of anything else to do with a secret except reveal it: “What do we do now? Tell them we know?”

Loki doesn’t let his temper show.

“No.” For how can he have his revenge if he’s no time to measure the extremities of it? “No, brother, we do not tell _anyone_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on my previous story. I’m really sorry for the slow reply to comments – I fully intend to reply to everyone but have been a little under the weather. Reading your messages really has cheered me up!


End file.
